--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, oxcart49 <no_reply@...> wrote: > > --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Jason" <jedi_spock@> wrote: > > > > This shit is as bad as Robin's shit. Dude post it in some > > other forum and not here. > > Chandler, in three words, 'pulp fiction writer'. > Robin in one, 'enigma'.
With all due respect, for Robin it takes two words: "bad writer." :-) For Chandler, it takes a few more (from Wikipedia). Some of Chandler's novels are considered to be important literary works, and three are often considered to be masterpieces: Farewell, My Lovely (1940), The Little Sister (1949), and The Long Goodbye (1953). The Long Goodbye is praised within an anthology of American crime stories as "arguably the first book since Hammett's The Glass Key, published more than twenty years earlier, to qualify as a serious and significant mainstream novel that just happened to possess elements of mystery" Critics and writers from W. H. Auden to Evelyn Waugh to Ian Fleming greatly admired Chandler's prose.[6] In a radio discussion with Chandler, Fleming said that Chandler offered "some of the finest dialogue written in any prose today." "Chandler wrote like a slumming angel and invested the sun-blinded streets of Los Angeles with a romantic presence." Ross Macdonald "Raymond Chandler invented a new way of talking about America, and America has never looked the same to us since." Paul Auster "The prose rises to heights of unselfconscious eloquence, and we realize with a jolt of excitement that we are in the presence of not a mere action-tale teller, but a stylist, a writer with a vision The reader is captivated by Chandler's seductive prose." Joyce Carol Oates, New York Review of Books "Chandler is one of my favorite writers. His books bear rereading every few years. The novels are a perfect snapshot of an American past, and yet the ruined romanticism of the voice is as fresh as if they were written yesterday." Jonathan Lethem "Chandler seems to have invented our post-war dream livesthe tough but tender hero, the dangerous blonde, the rain-washed sidewalks, and the roar of the traffic (and the ocean) in the distance Chandler is the classic lonely romantic outsider for our times, and American literature, as well as English, would be the poorer for his absence." Pico Iyer > > > > > > --- turquoiseb <no_reply@> wrote: > > > > > > Even more: > > > > > > The man in the powder-blue suit which wasn't powder-blue > > > under the lights of the Club Bolivar was tall, with wide- > > > set gray eyes, a thin nose, a jaw of stone. He had a rather > > > sensitive mouth His hair was crisp and black, ever so > > > faintly touched with gray, as by an almost diffident hand. > > > His clothes fitted him as though they had a soul of their > > > own, not just a doubtful past. His name happened to be Mallory. > > > > > > He's doing his next week's drinking too soon. > > > > > > I don't like drunks in the first place and in the second > > > place I don't like them getting drunk in here, and in the > > > third place, I don't like them in the first place. > > > > > > The dark guy took a week to fall down. He stumbled, caught > > > himself, waved one arm, stumbled again. His hat fell off, > > > and then he hit the floor with his face. After he hit it > > > he might have been poured concrete for all the fuss he > > > made. > > > > > > The drunk slid down off the stool and scooped his dimes > > > into a pocket and slid towards the door. He turned sideways, > > > holding the gun across his body. I didn't have a gun. I > > > hadn't thought I needed one to buy a glass of beer. > > > > > > The door swung shut. I started to rush it from long > > > practice in doing the wrong thing. In this case it didn't > > > matter. The car outside let out a roar and when I got onto > > > the sidewalk it was flicking a red smear of tail-light > > > around the nearby corner. I got its license number the > > > way I got my first million. > > > > > > He took his felt hat off and tousled up his ratty blond > > > hair and leaned his head on his hands. He had a long mean > > > horse face. He got a handkerchief out and mopped it, and > > > the back of his neck and the back of his hands. He got > > > a comb out and combed his hair he looked worse with > > > it combed and put his hat back on. > > > > > > She smoothed her hair with that quick gesture, like a > > > bird preening itself. Ten thousand years of practice > > > behind it. > > > > > > We were almost at my door. I jammed the key in and shook > > > the lock around and heaved the door inward. I reached in > > > far enough to switch lights on. She went in past me like > > > a wave. Sandalwood floated on the air, very faint. > > > > > > I shut the door, threw my hat into a chair and watched > > > her stroll over to a card table on which I had a chess > > > problem set out that I couldn't solve. Once inside, with > > > the door locked, her panic had left her. "So you're a > > > chess player," she said, in that guarded tone, as if she > > > had come to look at my etchings. I wished she had. > > > > > > Her eyes were set like rivets now and had the same amount of expression. > > > > > > I sipped my drink. I like an effect as well as the next > > > guy. Her eyes ate me. > > > > > > "He's really dead?" she whispered, "Really?" > > > "He's dead," I said. "Dead, dead, dead. Lady, he's dead." > > > Her face fell apart like a bride's piecrust. Her mouth > > > wasn't large, but I could have got my fist into it at > > > that moment. In the silence the elevator stopped at my > > > floor. > > > "Scream," I rapped, "and I'll give you two black eyes." > > > It didn't sound nice, but it worked. It jarred her out > > > of it. Her mouth shut like a trap. > > > > > > He came close to me and breathed in my face. "No mistakes, > > > pal about this story of ours." His breath was bad. It > > > would be. > > > > > > When I left the party across the street was still doing > > > all that a party can do. I noticed the walls of the house > > > were still standing. That seemed a pity. > > > > > > The hammer clicked back on Copernik's gun and I watched > > > his big bony finger slide in farther around the trigger. > > > The back of my neck was as wet as a dog's nose. > > > > > > Back and forth in front of them, strutting, trucking, > > > preening herself like a magpie, arching her arms and her > > > eyebrows, bending her fingers back until the carmine > > > nails almost touched her arms, a metallic blonde swayed > > > and went to town on the music. Her voice was a throaty > > > screech, without melody, as false as her eyebrows and > > > as sharp as her nails. > > > > > > He took out a leather keyholder and studied the lock of > > > the door. It looked like it would listen to reason. > > > > > > A swarthy iron-gray Italian in a cutaway coat stood in > > > front of the curtained door of the red brick funeral home, > > > smoking a cigar and waiting for someone to die. > > > > > > She had a mud-colored face, stringy hair, gray cotton > > > stockings everything a Bunker Hill landlady should have. > > > She looked at Steve with the interested eye of a dead goldfish. > > > > > > The cigar was burning unevenly and it smelled as if someone > > > had set fire to the doormat. > > > > > > In a moment the door opened again and Ellen Macintosh came > > > in. Maybe you don't like tall girls with honey-colored hair > > > and skin like the first strawberry peach the grocer sneaks > > > out of the box for himself. If you don't, I feel sorry for you. > > > > > > Ellen lowered her long silky eyelashes at me and when she > > > does that I go limp as a scrubwoman's back hair. > > > > > > The hotel was upstairs, the steps being covered in places > > > with strips of decayed rubber matting to which were screwed > > > irregular fragments of unpolished brass. The smell of the > > > Chinese laundry ceased about halfway up the stairs and was > > > replaced by a smell of kerosene, cigar butts, slept-in air > > > and greasy paper bags. > > > > > > I rang the bell and waited. Presently a door opened down the > > > hall and feet shuffled towards me without haste. A man > > > appeared wearing frayed leather slippers and trousers of a > > > nameless color, which had the two top buttons unlatched to > > > permit more freedom to the suburbs of his extensive stomach. > > > He also wore red suspenders, his shirt was darkened under > > > the arms, and elsewhere, and his face badly needed a thorough > > > laundering and trimming. > > > > > > The man who sat alone at the table was shaped like two eggs, > > > a robin's egg, which was his head, on top of a hen's egg, > > > which was his body. > > > > > > "You seem a right guy," Henry said. "What makes you always > > > talk so funny?" "I cannot seem to change my speech, Henry. > > > My father and mother were both severe purists in the New > > > England tradition and the vernacular has never come naturally > > > to my lips, even when I was in college." Henry made an > > > attempt to digest this remark, but I could see that it > > > lay somewhat heavily on his stomach. > > > > > > Henry put his empty glass down on the floor. It was the > > > first time I had seen him put an empty glass down and > > > leave it empty. > > > > > > Anna Halsey was about two hundred and forty pounds of > > > middle-aged putty-faced woman in a black tailor-made > > > suit. Her eyes were shiny black shoe-buttons, her cheeks > > > were as soft as suet and about the same color. She was > > > sitting behind a black desk that looked like Napolean's > > > tomb and she was smoking a cigarette in a black holder > > > that was not quite as long as a rolled umbrella. She > > > said, "I need a man." > > > > > > The Arbogast I wanted was John D. Arbogast and he had > > > an office on Sunset near Ivar. I called him up from a > > > phone booth. The voice that answered was fat. It > > > wheezed softly, like the voice of a man who had > > > just won a pie-eating contest. > > > > > > I leaned down and buried my fingers in the bottomless > > > fat of his neck. He had an artery in there someplace, > > > probably, but I couldn't find it and he didn't need > > > it anymore anyway. > > > > > > A doorman opened the door for me and I went in. The > > > lobby was not quite as big as the Yankee Stadium. It > > > was floored with a pale blue carpet with sponge rubber > > > underneath. It was so soft it made me want to lie down > > > and roll. I walked over to the desk and put an elbow on > > > it and was stared at by a pale thin clerk with one of > > > those mustaches that get stuck under your fingernail. > > > He toyed with it and looked past my shoulder at an > > > Ali Baba oil jar big enough to keep a tiger in. > > > > > > The elevator had a carpeted floor and mirrors and > > > indirect lighting. It rose as softly as the mercury > > > in a thermometer. > > > > > > She wore a street dress of pale green wool and a small > > > cockeyed hat that hung on the side of her ear like a > > > butterfly. Her eyes were wide-set and there was thinking > > > room between them. Their color was lapis-lazuli blue and > > > the color of her hair was dusky red, like a fire under > > > control but still dangerous. She was too tall to be cute. > > > She wore plenty of make-up in the right places and the > > > cigarette she was poking at me had a built-on mouthpiece > > > about three inches long. She didn't look hard, but she > > > looked as if she had heard all the answers and remembered > > > the ones she thought she might be able to use sometime. > > > > > > I remembered the half-bottle of Scotch I had left and > > > went into executive session with it. The jarring of the > > > telephone bell woke me. I had dozed off in the chair, > > > which was a bad mistake, because I woke up with two flannel > > > blankets in my mouth, a splitting headache, a bruise on > > > the back of my head and another on my jaw, neither of them > > > larger than a Yakima apple, but sore for all that. I felt > > > terrible. I felt like an amputated leg. > > > > > > He opened the door, went out, shut it, and I sat there > > > still holding the telephone, with my mouth open and nothing > > > in it but my tongue and a bad taste on that. > > > > > > "Show the company in, Beef." I liked this voice. It was > > > smooth, quiet, and you could have cut your name in it > > > with a thirty-pound sledge and a cold chisel. > > > > > > At one o'clock in the morning, Carl, the night porter, > > > turned down the last of the three table lamps in the main > > > lobby of the Windemere Hotel. The blue carpet darkened a > > > shade or two and the walls drew back into remoteness. > > > The chairs filled with shadowy loungers. In the corners > > > were memories like cobwebs. > > > > > > He got up with a curious litheness, all in one piece, > > > without moving his clasped hands from the watch chain. > > > At one moment he was leaning back relaxed and the next > > > he was standing balanced on his feet, perfectly still, > > > so that the movement of rising seemed to be a thing > > > imperfectly perceived, an error of vision. He walked > > > with small, polished shoes directly across the blue carpet > > > and under the arch. The music was louder. It contained > > > the hot, acid blare, the frenetic, jittering runs of a > > > jam session. It was too loud. The red-haired girl sat > > > there and stared silently at the fretted part of the > > > big radio cabinet as though she could see the band with > > > its fixed professional grin and the sweat running down > > > its back. She was curled up with her feet under her on > > > a davenport which seemed to contain most of the cushions > > > in the room. She was tucked among them carefully, like > > > a corsage in the florist's tissue paper. > > > > > > He walked slowly, like a man walking in a room where > > > somebody is very sick. He reached the chair he had sat > > > in before and lowered himself into it inch by inch. The > > > girl slept on, motionless, in that curled-up looseness > > > achieved by some women and all cats. > > > > > > > > > --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, turquoiseb <no_reply@> wrote: > > > > > > > > Sorry, I'm just rediscovering one of my favorite writers. > > > > > > > > "She gave me a smile I could feel in my hip pocket." > > > > > > > > In twelve words Chandler just nails it. He was good at that. > > > > Here are a few more, for those who love words: > > > > > > > > "There are two kinds of truth: the truth that lights the > > > > way and the truth that warms the heart. The first of these > > > > is science, and the second is art. Neither is independent > > > > of the other or more important than the other. Without art > > > > science would be as useless as a pair of high forceps in > > > > the hands of a plumber. Without science art would become > > > > a crude mess of folklore and emotional quackery. The truth > > > > of art keeps science from becoming inhuman, and the truth > > > > of science keeps art from becoming ridiculous." > > > > > > > > "There was a desert wind blowing that night. It was one > > > > of those hot dry Santa Anas that come down through the > > > > mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves > > > > jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze > > > > party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge > > > > of the carving knife and study their husbands' necks. > > > > Anything can happen. You can even get a full glass of > > > > beer at a cocktail lounge." > > > > > > > > "He snorted and hit me in the solar plexus. I bent over > > > > and took hold of the room with both hands and spun it. > > > > When I had it nicely spinning I gave it a full swing and > > > > hit myself on the back of the head with the floor." > > > > > > > > "It was about eleven o'clock in the morning, mid October, > > > > with the sun not shining and a look of hard wet rain in > > > > the clearness of the foothills. I was wearing my powder- > > > > blue suit, with dark blue shirt, tie and display > > > > handkerchief, black brogues, black wool socks with dark > > > > little clocks on them. I was neat, clean, shaved and > > > > sober, and I didn't care who knew it. I was everything > > > > the well-dressed private detective ought to be. I was > > > > calling on four million dollars." > > > > > > > > "Even on Central Avenue, not the quietest dressed street > > > > in the world, he looked about as inconspicuous as a > > > > tarantula on a slice of angel food." > > > > > > > > "It was a blonde. A blonde to make a bishop kick a hole > > > > in a stained glass window." > > > > > > > > "We sneered at each other across the desk for a moment. > > > > He sneered better than I did." > > > > > > > > "I needed a drink, I needed a lot of life insurance, I > > > > needed a vacation, I needed a home in the country. What > > > > I had was a coat, a hat and a gun. I put them on and > > > > went out of the room." > > > > > > > > "I hung up. It was a step in the right direction, but it > > > > didn't go far enough. I ought to have locked the door > > > > and hid under the desk." > > > > > > > > "From 30 feet away she looked like a lot of class. From > > > > 10 feet away she looked like something made up to be > > > > seen from 30 feet away." > > > > > > > > "I think a man ought to get drunk at least twice a year > > > > just on principle, so he won't let himself get snotty > > > > about it." > > > > > > > > "She jerked away from me like a startled fawn might, if > > > > I had a startled fawn and it jerked away from me." > > > > > > > > "On the dance floor half a dozen couples were throwing > > > > themselves around with the reckless abandon of a night > > > > watchman with arthritis." > > > > > > > > "'Tall, aren't you?' she said. > > > > 'I didn't mean to be.' > > > > Her eyes rounded. She was puzzled. She was thinking. I > > > > could see, even on that short acquaintance, that > > > > thinking was always going to be a bother to her." > > > > > > > > "The minutes went by on toptoe, with their fingers to > > > > their lips." > > > > > > > > "I'm an occasional drinker, the kind of guy who goes out > > > > for a beer and wakes up in Singapore with a full beard." > > > > > > > > "The big foreign car drove itself, but I held the wheel > > > > for the sake of appearances." > > > > > > > > "The girl gave him a look which ought to have stuck at > > > > least four inches out of his back." > > > > > > > > "She lowered her lashes until they almost cuddled her > > > > cheeks and slowly raised them again, like a theatre > > > > curtain. I was to get to know that trick. That was > > > > supposed to make me roll over on my back with all > > > > four paws in the air." > > > > > > > > "Neither of the two people in the room paid any attention > > > > to the way I came in, although only one of them was dead." > > > > > > > > "The faster I write the better my output. If I'm going slow, > > > > I'm in trouble. It means I'm pushing the words instead of > > > > being pulled by them." > > > > > > > > > >
